no sweeter innocence
by withered
Summary: He says things so easily, so carelessly, so honestly. Rukia wonders what it's like to be loved by him.


A prompt for Anon

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no sweeter innocence

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Rukia decides to stay.

This whole business may be over, for now, but there's work to be done, and despite being useless throughout the entire ordeal, Rukia does need to recover.

Byakuya-niisama had asked it of her, practically begged. And even if she hadn't resolved years ago to honour her brother's wishes, this time is different: he had given her a choice, he had apologized, he had asked for the opportunity to do better.

And Rukia. She didn't know what to do with that.

But he'd been earnest. And while he was never actually emotional, Byakuya-niisama had never lied to her before and he wasn't about to start now.

Inoue knew, of course. She'd been there helping heal the wounded. She would've told Ichigo.

But she didn't.

Whether out of respect for their privacy, or the possibility that she hadn't heard the exchange between siblings at all, it hardly matters when, as the humans prepare to depart, Ichigo says to her, "Let's go home."

He's got a small smirk of something satisfied, something assured. He seems more settled, comfortable in his skin. "If we leave now, we'll make it in time for the long weekend. We can go to that dumb Chappy store opening you were going on about." Her heart promptly lodges itself in her throat. It's ridiculous to feel so touched about something so inane after the near-impossible feats he'd gone to to save her. To bring her home.

In his Shinigami robes with his butcher's knife of a blade strapped to his back, Rukia thinks by fate's grace, she'd chosen her substitute well. Ichigo was made for this. He'll do well, back there.

"I'm not going with you."

His expression freezes, and Rukia does too because. Because she didn't expect to regret it, didn't expect to want to _go back _with him. For a breathless moment, time stops, and they stand across from one another: Ichigo backlit by the gates of the Living World, and Rukia, a lone figure in white amongst the black robes of a world far more familiar to her.

There's a symmetry in this somehow, a poetry. Her heart feels needlessly heavy.

Then, he smiles, reluctant and sad, and sighs, "Ah." Like he understands. Which is impossible because Rukia doesn't. For a fleeting second, she considers taking the words back; dragging him through the gates; starting the groundwork for bargaining for the Chappy she wants.

Behind him, Inoue seems to peer over his shoulder, and then, it clicks. _Ah_.

Ichigo probably wants to get back to his life now that his imagined debt has been paid. The thought makes Rukia's skin feel too tight, her movements too mechanical, even as the words come, easy as they've always been with him, "I won't say thank you."

His expression turns serious. "Good because I don't want you to."

"You don't owe me," Rukia says a little too sharply.

And at that he steps closer, breaching the chasm that's always separated them but hadn't seemed all that tumultuous until just then when he's really looking at her; flaying her open with just a look. "That's not why."

She feels exposed; her heart fit to burst. "Ichigo…"

He licks his lips, gaze flickering around them in a way she knows means he's nervous before it settles back to her. Something fragile seems to glitter, catching on the brown of his eyes like a wink of gold. Then, quietly, "Ask me to stay, and I will."

Her breath catches, sharp; surprised. "Ichigo!"

And just like that, he huffs out a breath as if he'd been holding it in this whole time before he's reaching back to rub at his neck and looking away with a grumble, "Tch, I don't trust these assholes, and if you're hurt, I'm definitely not leaving you with them."

Rukia gapes, and over the sound of someone announcing that the gate is ready, Inoue leaves in a flutter and disappears beyond.

Ichigo doesn't even flinch, doesn't look away to watch Inoue go.

Behind him, the setting sun matches the intensity of his eyes.

Oh, Rukia thinks. _Oh._


End file.
